


K is for Kinky

by karaokegal



Category: QI RPF
Genre: American Politics, British Character, British Comedy, Crack, Gen, Humor, Metafiction, Politics, Weirdness, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karaokegal/pseuds/karaokegal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very special QI episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	K is for Kinky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Monsteranon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsteranon/gifts).



> Thank you for letting me and my crazy mind run wild through the QI-verse. I hope the cracky goodness makes you happy. Thanks to [My_Young_Friend](http://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Young_Friend/pseuds/My_Young_Friend) and [Timbershiver](http://timbershiver.livejournal.com/) for Beta, Brit-checking, and re-assuring me I hadn't gone completely off the deep end.

**Gooooo-oood evening, good evening, good EEEEEEVENING, and welcome to QI, the programme that’s here to warm your cockles and titillate your talleywackers, where tonight, we’ll be delving into the dark and twisted world of kinks, kings and things that are certainly inappropriate for the kiddies, so kindly lock them in a room with violent video games for the duration.**

That was a bit odd, Alan thought. Kink started with K, at least the last time he looked, and he was sure they’d just done the show about Invertebrates, and should therefore still be in the I series. He vividly remembered brandishing a bug-filled lolly at Sarah Millican, leading to a slew of innuendo about the item potentially ending up in her “nonny.” Jimmy had found that hilarious, of course. The pervert. If anyone should be here for a show about kinks, it was him, but apparently not.

**Here to help me rule over this den of iniquity are the master of the written word, direct from Victorian London, it’s Oscar Wilde!**

Talk about a “get,” what with him being dead and all. Alan had to admit he looked pretty good under the circumstances, although for a second there he’d thought it might be Steve Strange. Truly amazing the people John Lloyd managed to convince to come on the show, or maybe in this case, it was one of Stephen’s contacts. He did seem to know everybody. 

**The mistress of American foreign policy, direct from the United States, it’s Hillary Clinton!**

Alan shook his head in disbelief at what he had just heard, only to find that Hillary Clinton, or a bloody good double, was sitting next to him, wearing quite a smart pantsuit, accented with a pink silk scarf, and accepting an enthusiastic round of applause, with a wave and a warm smile. 

She did look quite fit, he had to say. Pictures didn’t do her justice. He wondered how one went about chatting up a Secretary of State. _Shall we go to my place and cement the “special relationship?”_ Maybe not. He couldn’t imagine the Secret Service would look kindly on that sort of thing, much less Bill Clinton, not that he was in much of a position to object. Of course, he would never actually do that to Katie, even if he had a chance, but on the other hand….HILLARY CLINTON!

**The lord of the seven seas, direct from the Indian Ocean, it’s a Blue Whale!**

Something was very wrong. He couldn’t possibly have gotten pissed enough to be imagining this. If it was Stephen’s idea of a joke…well it was a damned good one, he had to admit. Since when did the BBC have that kind of money to throw around? The tank was absolutely enormous. 

**And direct from a tube delay at Cock…fosters, the king of clowns, it’s Alan Davies!**

He nodded and smiled, practically on auto-pilot, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was about to play QI with Oscar Wilde, Hillary Clinton and a Blue Whale. Maybe this was what it was like being in Ross Noble’s brain all the time. It would probably seem perfectly normal to him. 

**If at any time during the evening, you wish to attract my attention, you’ve been given a suitably kinky device. Oscar goes:**

_Dandy, Dandy. Checkin’ out the ladies._

**Hillary goes:**

_Come dancing. All her boyfriends used to come and call._

**The Blue Whale goes:**

_Save me, save me, save me from this squeeze._

**Yes, lovely. And Alan goes:**

He pushed the button with his usual trepidation. 

_Kinko, Kinko, the kid-loving clown._

Alan greeting the ensuing laughter with his patented, “chipper, but slightly dim” expression, which he used so often to maintain his dignity, such as it might be after 10 (or if it really were the K series, then 12) series of this madness. He tried to focus, as Stephen assumed his more conversational tone rather than his booming introductory voice.

“Very well, then. Onto our first question. Who was the kinkiest world leader?”

Surely they wouldn’t go there so soon. Not with her sitting _right there_ , but sure enough the audience was breaking into half-embarrassed tittering and a picture of the former President, was being projected onto the screen in back of the panelists. 

He looked over at Hillary. Apparently she had a patented “maintain your dignity” expression, as well. You’d have to in her position, wouldn’t you? Then she hit her buzzer. _Come dancing. All her boyfriends used to come and call._ Alan felt a tension building up in the studio. What on earth would she say?

“You know Stephen, there was a twelfth century Chinese emperor, named, oh, wasn’t it Hailing Wong, or something like that? Anyway, he could be very forceful when it came to keeping discipline around the palace.” 

“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid,” Stephen replied, looking at his cards. “His name was actually…Hailing Wang of Jin.” 

Naughtly giggles ensued from the audience, as Stephen clearly expected, despite looking over his glasses in disapproval in their direction. 

“I’ve heard of raining men, but hailstones of that size and shape might be more than our faint-hearted ladies _or_ gentlemen could stomach,” intoned Oscar, sounding just as plummy as Alan would have expected, although perhaps with a touch more of a brogue.

“A sight for sore buttocks, perhaps” Stephen shot back, before returning to his cards. “Let me quote you about a bit of his, as the consultants might say, “management style.” 

"Hailing continued the Jurchen tradition of floggings with a gusto, sometimes enjoying personally watching his officials and court members – including prime ministers, censors, and a princess – beaten with poles or whips." 

Alan couldn’t resist anymore. He started banging his hands on the desk and shouting in his best “fake Chinese” accent. “Hailing Wang. Hailing WANG! I will have you beaten until cocks fall from the sky!”

The audience cracked up and Alan thought he saw Hillary trying _not_ to smile. Stephen did his best “angry school master” expression, but they’d reached an understanding. Sometimes you had to do anything for a laugh, no matter how Un-PC and deeply offensive it might be. In this case it was screaming “HAILING WANG” and banging the desk top a bit more, until he sensed the laughs were petering (to coin a phrase) out.

“So yes, Hillary,” Stephen continued, attempting to get things back under control. “You do get some points for knowing about Hailing Wang,” but perhaps another kind of kinkiness could be under discussion.” 

An artistic rendering of the Emperor was replaced with a photograph of Alan, this one photo-shopped to give him an afro.

“Ah hah!” he shouted. “You’re talking about some kinky-haired monarch….like…how about…Haile Selassie?”

“Hightly delighted, I’m sure,” said Stephen, in his most dismissive manner. “But you are sort of on the right track.” 

“I could tell you a few surprising things about Prince Albert’s crown jewels,” Oscar opined. 

“Oooooohhhhh, not as surprising as you might think, Oscar,” Stephen said, mournfully, as the claxons went off and the words **Prince Albert** appeared on the screen. “Not true either, I’m sorry to say, since the story is such a lovely piece of genital folklore, but it just isn’t the case. This fellow named Doug Malloy made the whole thing up and it only goes back to the 1970’s. He published a pamphlet in which he concocted fanciful histories of genital piercings in particular, which included the notion that Prince Albert invented the piercing in order to tame the appearance of his large penis in tight trousers.”

“Like he’s got anything to worry about, compared to what’s dragging on my ocean floor,” came a deep, growling voice from the Blue Whale’s tank. Since when were Blue Whales Scottish? 

Oscar responded to his forfeit by pursing his lips and patting his wavy hair. Alan would have been amused to see Gyles Brandreth come face to pouting face with his hero, but Gyles was unlikely to be invited back, not after he’d managed to freak out Sue Perkins so much she refused ever to share a studio with him again. Besides, he was a bit of an insufferable know-it-all, even by QI standards, nearly as bad as Rory McGrath and his bloody Latin bird names. 

Alan realised he’d completely lost the thread. He didn’t know if Stephen had actually named the kinkiest world leader. Frankly, he didn’t care much. 

“And since we are, or rather were on the subject of hair, what product might be helpful if your hair were too kinky?”

_Save me, save me, save me from this squeeze._

“Yes, Blue Whale?”

“Jojoba!” rasped the Blue Whale, at which point Alan recognised the voice. It sounded exactly like Billy Connolly, or at least Stephen’s Billy Connolly impression. 

The claxons went off and the word **jojoba** appeared on the screen.

“No, we were there ahead of you, Blue Whale, and I’m afraid, Jojoba won’t do much for your hair, besides make it smell nice.

“Bugger!” growled the whale, making Alan a bit nervous. If it decided to thrash around in anger, the whole studio would be flooded. The giant mammal, (not a fish, Alan reminded himself, there’s no such thing as a fish, after all) managed to restrain itself, but not before launching into a Connolly-worthy string of profanity that would probably go out as the longest bleep in history, even after the watershed.

“And now for a different kind of perverse behavior. What kind of person might suffer from _pleonixia_?”

That sounded Greek, but Oscar beat him to the punch. 

“It’s Greek to me and I do love a Greek.”

“Don’t we all,” Stephen agreed, “except of course for Alan here. And in fact this particular condition was something your good friends Plato and Arisotle talked about a bit.”

“Oh god!” These Greek bits were always ludicrous. Hopefully this one didn’t involve a pig’s penis. Although it would be funny to say it. “Does it involve a pig’s penis?” 

“Not this time dear!”

“Bollocks!,” he mutter in faux chagrin.

“Or those, I’m afraid.” 

“Bugger!” yelled the Blue Whale, presumably on his behalf.

“Nor that neither.” 

_Come dancing, all her boyfriends used to come and call._

“Yes, Hillary?”

“It’s a state of wanting, isn’t it?” 

“More than wanting….,” Stephen encouraged her.

“Wanting….a Greek?” Oscar interjected.

“No!” Stephen replied firmly.

“Wanting a kebab?” Alan tried, with a grin, knowing it would produce Stephen’s groan of exasperation. 

“Nooooo! Wanting….?”

“A Nobel Peace price,” said Hillary in a soft, sad voice.

“Are there no Greek scholars in the audience?” Stephen called out in despair. 

Finally the Blue Whale, sounding like a much calmer Billy Connolly asked, “Is it more?”

“Yes,” Stephen replied. “It’s wanting more than your fair share, without restraint or proportion. So after a night of indulging your _pleonexia_ , perhaps at a nightclub, what would it mean if someone described you as “tired and emotional?”

Hillary didn’t bother with her buzzer. “Would it mean you’d gotten a little tipsy?”

The Blue Whale wasn’t standing on ceremony either. “It would mean you were drunk off yer tits.” 

“Exactly.” Stephen concurred, shuffling through the cards again, “and what kind of people might say something like that, or more likely, print it?”

“That would be the degenerate scoundrels of the press, I believe,” said Oscar. 

“We do have some consensus about that, don’t we,” Stephen replied, “Any idea exactly which degenerates?”

Suddenly Alan knew, as he did so rarely, exactly the right answer. “Private Eye!”

“Private, as you rightly say, Eye! Can you decode some of the other euphemisms from those lovely gentlemen of Shropshire. For example “lighting an exotic cheroot?”

“Smoking marijuana!” Alan answered in his sing-song Mexican accent. 

“Correct. What about, “talking about Uganda?” 

“FUCKING!” the Blue Whale bellowed, clearly earning points, while deafening half of the studio audience, and, no doubt, anyone who had a headset on in the control room. 

“The old rumpy-pumpy, as it were. Who are “Sue, Grabbit & Runne?”

“Lawyers, no doubt,” said Oscar, with scathing contempt. “The press being rude about the law is rather like a blackmailer looking down on an arsonist. They are similarly destructive and equally contemptible.” 

The studio went nearly quiet, as no one seemed to have a remotely witty follow up. That would drive the control room blokes even crazier than trying to clean up sound levels (and the studio floor) after the Blue Whale. Alan would have bet the elves were wishing they’d asked about Spiggy Topes instead.

Stephen resumed his booming tones, no doubt trying to get the recording back on track, knowing that somewhere John Lloyd was pulling hairs out of his beard one at time.

**And with that, gentlemen, lady and cetacean, it’s time to thread our way down the twisted corridors that can only lead to the deadly perversion we call General Ignorance, fingers on buzzers please. What would you think was happening if you found yourself on a panel with Oscar Wilde, Hillary Clinton, and Blue Whale?”**

_Kinko, Kinko, the kid loving clown._

“I’d be having a delusion.” He knew the minute the words were out of his mouth that he’d picked the wrong one, and naturally the world around him exploded with the sound of the claxons and the word **delusion** flashed on the screen, meaning that once again, he would definitely _not_ win. 

“Not a delusion…it’s an…”

“Hallucination,” Alan groaned, the last words out of his mouth before the world started melting around him. 

Then the sound shifted and Alan realised it wasn’t the sound of a forfeit, but rather the siren of an ambulance, one that was very close, so close that he was inside it. The studio had vanished, and he was flat on his back, speeding through what he hoped were the streets of London with a mask on his face, presumably providing oxygen. No Hillary, which was too bad. No Oscar, slightly less bad. No Blue Whale, either. Well, he’d hardly fit in the ambulance, would he? One thing was consistent from his, not-a-delusion, Stephen was there, looking very worried.

“What happened?” Alan said, trying to be heard around the oxygen mask.

“Bad insects dear. You and I have both had rather negative effects from our attempts to embrace the invertebrate lifestyle. You’re the one who’s more the worse for wear, and they’re taking you in for immediate treatment. Katie’s going to meet you at the hospital. I had to make sure you were going to all right before they…pump me or whatever. 

“What about Johnny.”

“Cast-iron stomach, I suppose.”

Sarah must be laughing her bloody arse off, but actually he knew Sarah and she was a kind soul, when not on stage. Jimmy, on the other hand….

He pulled off the mask to make it easier to talk. He didn’t see how breathing would be affected by eating bad bugs until he started having trouble again and noticed rising panic. Maybe they were giving him something a little stronger than oxygen. He wouldn’t mind a bit more of it. Just one question he had first.

“Did you have an hallucination?”

“It was horrible. The guests were Emma, Jo and Liza and they all took their clothes off at the same time. I was drowning in an ocean of fulsome funbags. I thought I would suffocate.”

Stephen looked truly horrified. Naked women would certainly be more traumatic for Stephen than any Billy Connolly-sounding Blue Whale had been for Alan. The Blue Whale had actually been brilliant, even if he was annoying sod. In fact, he kind of missed finding out what had happened. He put his mask back on and took a deep inhalation letting himself fall back into a light sleep which he hoped would return him to….

**Which just leaves us with the matter of the scores, and oh goodness me what a sleazy affair it has turned out to be…with a score of 22 points, it’s the Blue Whale!**

Alan felt a splash as the Blue Whale breached out of its tank and did a spectacular jump, with the landing creating a tsunami effect that had the front rows running for the doors and various technical support swarming the studio in an effort to avoid slippage, electrical shorts and anything else that would trigger a call to health and fucking safety.

**In second place, with a nearly credible minus two, it’s Oscar Wilde!**

Wilde shrugged, rather majestically, and waved his handkerchief, while managing to steer clear of the flying droplets still coming down in the Blue Whale’s wake. 

**With minus 13, it’s Hillary Clinton!**

She really was a fine looking woman. Maybe she’d come visit him in the hospital. 

**And wiping up the mess off the floor after the orgy, on minus 42, it’s Alan Davies!**

So what else was new? He couldn't really give a toss, because Hillary was winking at him, or was that just another side effect of the repulsive chocolate-covered ant or whatever the nice men in the ambulance were sending into his lungs? Either way, he liked it. 

**So that’s good night from Blue Whale, Hillary, Oscar, Alan and me, and do remember, as they say on the internet, your kink is not my kink and that’s okay, but do remember to properly tag your fic, and clean up after your own Meta. Good Night!**


End file.
